


They Don't Know You (Not Like I Do)

by wandasmaximoffs



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Homophobic Language, M/M, a+ enjolras u did good, but enjolras is a badass and loving boyfriend, honestly poor grantaire, honestly this was painful to write, rich people suck: a novel, supportive boyfriends enjolras and grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 15:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8061955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandasmaximoffs/pseuds/wandasmaximoffs
Summary: "Let’s just stay in bed forever. It sounds so good, right? Just, staying here forever.” Enjolras hums in agreement, and he shifts slightly so that their faces are level, noses almost touching. “That does sound good,” He agrees, “But we can’t. We have dinner with your parents today, remember?” Grantaire wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “Dinner with satan, and his wife. Lovely.”





	1. Chapter 1

_“No._ Vamos a permanecer en la cama, _siempre,_ sí? Eso suena muy bien.” _Let’s stay in bed forever, Yeah? That sounds so good._ Grantaire can’t fault his own logic. It _does_ sound so good. He could happily stay in this bed, curled around Enjolras, for the rest of his life. Enjolras laughs against his neck.

  
“French, _please,_ I beg of you. I’m not past ‘formal and informal greetings’ in my lessons yet.”

“Mm, okay. For you. Because I _love_ you. And I love that you’re learning a whole new fuckin’ language for me-- you’re a nerd, by the way --I _said,_ let’s just stay in bed forever. It sounds so good, right? Just, staying here forever.”

 Enjolras hums in agreement, and he shifts slightly so that their faces are level, noses almost touching. “That does sound good,” He agrees, “But we can’t. We have dinner with your parents today, remember?”

 Grantaire wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “Dinner with satan, and his wife. _Lovely.”_ He sighs, stretching out before reluctantly, _reluctantly_ disentangling himself from Enjolras and getting out of bed. “I bet they’re building our coffins as we speak.”

 

“Grantaire. It’ll be fine. We’re all adults, this is going to _nice._ ” Enjolras actually sounds _convinced_ that this whole thing isn’t going to end in a fight, fire, or murder. Grantaire has to commend his optimism.

 "No, babe,” He mutters darkly, staring his reflection in the mirror down as Enjolras wraps his arms around his middle. “Nothing these people do, ever, is nice, or fun, or even mature. We could cancel right now and just go back to bed, huh? _That_ sounds fun, right?”

 Enjolras laughs quietly, and presses a small kiss to his jaw before resting his chin on his shoulder.

 

“They’re your _parents,_ Grantaire. Not man-eating alligators. C’mon, we gotta get dressed.”

 

* * *

 

 

Cosette is waiting on the sofa, and she looks so sombre that Enjolras’ heart skips slightly, anticipating some dreadful news from her.

 

“Hey, Cosette,” He starts, cautiously, and she immediately turns her glare to him. Of course she does. Most people would be surprised to see Enjolras falter under the gaze of anyone, but then most people _haven’t_ been subjected to Cosette’s glares. “Uh. So I-- You know Grantaire best, and-- I wondered, I mean-- What’s the deal with his parents?”

 This was obviously the wrong thing to say (or stutter), as Cosette’s glare intensifies by a tenfold.

 “Enjolras,” She says, and the combination of her gentle tone and death glare is slowly moving past unsettling and into downright _terrifying,_ “You are just about to meet his parents and only _now_ are you asking this? Are you _crazy?_ ”

 

Enjolras pales, ever so slightly, and crosses his arms over his chest. He hopes Grantaire can’t hear them from the bedroom.

 

“You know how he is, Cosette, I _ask_ and I get-- _‘Lizard people, mi sol, lizard people.’_ and then he does something-- Distracting, and--”

 He knows he doesn’t _really_ have an excuse, but Grantaire has really, truly mastered the art of diversion. He can guide Enjolras away from topics such as these without him even noticing, most days, despite burning curiosity. Cosette knows this, too, and so decides to take pity on his poor, oblivious soul.

 “Okay, okay, En, _I get it._ ” She waves a hand, looking mildly disgusted, but before Enjolras can protest with a _nothing like_ **_that,_ ** _get your head out of the gutter,_ she runs a hand through her hair and sighs. “They’re, ah, not so… _accepting_. They never really have been? He stayed with me through most of highschool, and they haven’t really talked much since.”

 

“Oh, _shit._ ”

 Enjolras sinks slowly into the space next to Cosette on the sofa. He’d assumed things between them weren’t exactly _perfect,_ but not to this extent. He was expecting a dinner, not a war.

  _But no,_ he reminds himself, _they reached out. They invited us, so maybe this is a sign of things looking up._

 It’s true, they did send the invite. (In the _mail,_ white-and-gold and _embossed_ .) And Grantaire did have a minor breakdown over it (“Why couldn’t they call me, like real human beings? Like-- An _invite?_ Through the postal service? What the _fuck?”_ )

 

Cosette is staring at him in that sombre, serious way that always makes Enjolras soften slightly. It ages her, to look so serious, and to see her without her usual soft smiles and wide eyes just seems unnatural.

 “This is a big step for him,” She says, folding her hands in her lap delicately. “He’s sober, and he’s taking you to meet his parents. I haven’t seen him talk to his parents in a remotely coherent state since we were like, sixteen. Just-- Be supportive, okay?”

 

“He’s always supportive!” Comes Grantaire’s voice from the bedroom, and Enjolras tilts his head forward to hide the blush that comes with his laugh. “Okay,” Says Grantaire, finally leaving their bedroom and coming in to view. “How do I look? Not too much like a magician, I hope.”

 He doesn’t often see Grantaire in a suit, and he has to admit, it really does him justice. Even if he is accessorizing with his seemingly ever present beanie.

  
“No! You look-- It’s, um, I like-- You’re very--”

 "You look hot, chou. Very James Bond.” Says Cosette, cutting off Enjolras’ mess of a compliment.

 “Can I try again?” He says weakly, standing up to wrap his arms around the other. “Oh, sure,” Says Grantaire, leaning down to kiss him softly.

 “Alright, then. I think you look very, _very_ handsome, monsieur Grantaire.”

 

The smile on Grantaire’s face makes Enjolras’ heart _really_ skip a beat. Or maybe he’s having a heart attack. Or maybe it’s both. Either way, he’s fairly certain he could just stand here and stare at that smile for the rest of eternity.

 

“And you, monsieur Enjolras. You ready to go?”

His smiled has faded into more of a grimace, and Enjolras sighs at the loss.

 “We really don’t have to go, if you don’t want to. I don’t _have_ to meet your parents.”

 

It’s such a tempting offer, Grantaire rocks back and forth on his heels for at least three minutes, considering. On one hand, that would be the best thing ever, and they could spend the night not in the company of a pair of homophobic rich assholes. On the other hand,

 He can’t think of any reason why they should go.

 On the other hand, Enjolras _does_ want to meet them.

 

There. That’s a reason.

  
“Why would I deny anyone the pleasure of meeting you? C’mon.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The maid that greets them at the door is unfamiliar, but Grantaire is unsurprised. His parents go through staff like he does tequila. (Like he used to.) Enjolras looks mildly surprised, but otherwise says nothing else.

The maid that greets them at the door is unfamiliar, but Grantaire is unsurprised. His parents go through staff like he does tequila. (Like he _used_ to.) Enjolras looks mildly surprised, but otherwise says nothing else.

 “I’m assuming Cosette warned you about some of their-- Less appealing traits, yeah?” He mutters, quietly lacing his fingers with Enjolras’ as they walk through the foyer and into the drawing room. ( _Drawing room,_ thinks Grantaire, _how fucking pretentious. Call it a living room like normal people._ ) Enjolras nods, and gives him an encouraging smile.

 “It’s going to be _fine,_ love.”

 They reach the _living room_ before Grantaire can properly reply, and so instead he takes a deep breath. (He’s starting to regret his own sobriety.)

 

Grantaire’s parents _do_ look intimidating, Enjolras thinks. His mother is a short woman, with hair as dark and curled as Grantaire’s, though he’s fairly certain the roots have been dyed, thin lips and severe eyes that remind him slightly of the headmaster of his old school. His father is taller, more Grantaire’s height, with lighter brown hair peppered with gray. He already looks utterly disapproving.

 Grantaire clears his throat.

 

“Uh, mama, papa, this is Enjolras. Enjolras, my mother, Marie-Clarisse, and my father, Alistair.”

 Enjolras steps forward and kisses his mother’s hand, the suave bastard, and doesn’t drop his gaze when he shakes his father’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” He says, stepping back to take Grantaire’s hand again. They both nod in acknowledgement.

 

Marie-Clarisse coughs. “What do you have on your _head,_ Grantaire? You look ridiculous.”

 “And so it begins,” He mutters, and Enjolras frowns. “It’s a hat, ma,” He says, louder this time. “It’s called a beanie.”

“Well, take it off.” Her eyes, somehow, seem more severe, focused in on Grantaire like this.

“When I’m dead and in the ground, maybe.”

 

Enjolras flinches, ever so slightly, (Some wounds are still a little fresh.) and Grantaire squeezes his hand by way of apology.

 Grantaire sighs, and goes to sit on the couch, pulling Enjolras with him. It’s a nice house; Big, _very_ big, with gilded wall fixtures, uncomfortable furniture, portraits and all that jazz. Grantaire would burn it down in a second if he could.

 

“Can I get either of you a drink?” Asks Alistair, and Grantaire groans. God, he wants a drink. More than anything, right now, he wants a _drink._

 But then Enjolras smiles at him, that big bright _encouraging_ smile, and god fucking _dammit._

 

“Uh, just water for me, thanks.” He says, and his father raises his eyebrows.

“Well, this _is_ a first. He doesn’t stumble when he walks, and he doesn’t grab at the chance to get himself inebriated.”

 “Oh my _god,_ dad--”

“He’s been sober for almost eleven months now,” Enjolras cuts in, and he sounds strained but still _proud,_ somehow. “We’re all very proud, don’t you agree?”

 “Oh, well. That’s nice, Grantaire, why didn’t you tell us?” His mother is smiling now, too, but it’s tight around the edges, like it pains her.

 “Well, I dunno, ma. ‘Cause we haven’t spoken in like, a decade, maybe?”

 

Grantaire sounds so tired, Enjolras immediately regrets bringing it up. In fact, he regrets coming at all, on Grantaire’s behalf. Grantaire didn’t _want_ to come in the first place. He’s beginning to see why.

 

* * *

 

 

They eat dinner at seven, on the dot, as always. (God, he feels sixteen again, and not in the good way.)

 “We’ve missed you awfully,” Says Marie-Clarisse over the salads. “We do wish you’d stop _gallivanting_ with that little group of hooligans you so enjoy tailing.”

 

“The ABC aren’t hooligans, ma,” Grantaire sighs. “They’re my friends. And good people. And without them, I’d never have met Enjolras, and that would have just been a _travesty._ ” He’s obviously trying to force some humour into his tone, anything but the strange (and honestly, to Enjolras, heartbreaking) combination of exhaustion and rage.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Mutters Alistair.

 

Grantaire’s mother is still smiling that too-tight smile when she turns her gaze to Enjolras.

 “Of course, we mean no offence to you, Enjolras. It’s so nice to meet Grantaire’s special… Friend.”

“Dios _mío,_ mother, just say _boyfriend._ It probably won’t kill you to finally accept it.”

 

“Don’t talk to your mother in that tone,” Alistair cuts in, putting his fork down with a little more force than necessary. “We’ve all had a hard time _adjusting_ to your choice of… Lifestyle.”

 “Lifestyle?” Enjolras sounds like he’s choking on something, and Grantaire lets his head fall into his hands. _Ten euros says we won’t make it to the main course,_ he thinks.

 

“The alcohol, the drugs, we could handle. We could _fix._ The-- insistence on being an _artist,_ of all things. Playing rebel with your little student friends. Stepping out with men, completely disrespecting and ignoring us.Your actions have _consequences,_ Grantaire. How do you expect me to look the boys at the club in the eye, knowing full well my only son is some bleeding heart faggot in a run-down apartment, living with criminals?”

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything. He looks-- Well, he looks exhausted. He looks as though he’s just been put through a wringer twice over, and then hung out to dry. But he doesn’t look surprised, not even a little bit, and Enjolras’ heart breaks. Marie-Clarisse is no longer smiling.

 

“Now, Alistair,” She says, but he cuts her off almost immediately.

“No, dear, he needs to hear it. He needs to know the _strain_ he has put on this family--”

 

“Oh, _shut up_ .” Enjolras says, and Grantaire looks up. Of course he’s standing there, looking all angel-of-destruction again, like he could take on the fucking hulk and beat him with words alone. Of course he is. He’s an absolute fucking _masterpiece,_ standing there in all his righteous fury, staring down Grantaire’s parents as though there was no one else in this world he’d rather be fighting.

 And then, he turns to Grantaire, and looks at him as though there was no one else in this world he’d rather be fighting _for._

 

“Your son,” He spits, and his hands are shaking with rage or with anxiety or adrenaline or maybe it’s all three, “Your son is a fucking credit to humanity. He really is. You don’t know the _half_ of how genuinely _good_ he is. He’s so kind. He’s so-- He’s so _talented._ Have you ever seen any of his paintings? They’re masterpieces. Every single one. When he _dances,_ no one can take their eyes off him. He spends his time _volunteering_ at fucking _animal shelters!_ Jesus christ, he almost _died_ for me! For our friends! He’s so loving. He’s so _intelligent,_ and you-- You can’t see that? You can’t see past the fact that he likes _boys?_ It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic. You don’t deserve to be in the same fucking _room_ as him. Come on, Grantaire. We have some bedsheets to be messing up in our filthy, rundown apartment with our terrible, criminal friends.”

 

Grantaire’s throat suddenly feels very thick, and his eyes very hot, and he doesn’t say anything. He just takes Enjolras’ outstretched hand and walks right out with him, leaving his parents nothing short of dumbfounded at the table.

 

* * *

 

 

“Holy shit,” Breathes Grantaire, when they get to the car. Enjolras hasn’t said anything since they left, and he still looks furious, but his expression softens exponentially when he looks over at him. “Holy _shit._ ”

 “I’m really, _really_ sorry, Grantaire.” Says Enjolras, and Grantaire is so caught off guard he actually laughs.

“ _You’re_ sorry? You just defended my honor in front of _my_ fucked up parents, babe. I should be the sorry one, here. Thank you for that, by the way. That was-- Wow.”

 Suddenly, a lot of things make sense to Enjolras. Grantaire has never loved himself, he’s never seen the beauty in his own art, he covers up with sarcasm and bad jokes and oversized sweaters. Enjolras feels another white-hot rush of _hate_ towards the assholes in that big house, masquerading as parents.

 

“You didn’t want to come. I did. I’m really sorry, you don’t-- You don’t deserve any of that. You really don’t. You never have.”

 Grantaire doesn't know what to say to that. His throat is feeling thick again and his eyes are getting _hot_ again, and Enjolras looks so genuine and so concerned that he can’t help but leaning forward and letting their lips crash together, his hand moving up to tangle in those blonde curls he can never quite get right in paintings.

 “Let’s go home,” He breathes, when he finally pulls away, “I’ll make some real food, and we can recount the tale of how you just _fucked my parents up_ to Cosette. She’ll get a kick out of this, she’s always hated the old shits. Yeah?”

 Enjolras laughs, breathy and _happy,_ and he swipes his thumb across Grantaire's cheek.

 

“Yeah.” He says, planting one last kiss on Grantaire’s cheek before starting the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowowowow this end note is from the future, its 2018 and I'm editing some outdated urls in my fics and noticed i didnt put my customary end notes in this one? shame on me. thanks to everyone who read already, and thanks to everyone reading now! u can hmu on tumblr @ jehanprouvaiire <3


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